


le langage des fleurs

by wxntersbucky



Category: The Originals (TV), The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: F/M, Witch!Caroline, canon realted but it is pretty loose, klaus is lowkey dark, plans for future mature content/smuttiness, shes also a florist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 01:22:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30081309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wxntersbucky/pseuds/wxntersbucky
Summary: The prophecy stated that the last thing standing between him and the creation of his hybrids could be found with the eldest grimoire belonging to the Original witch. After being lost for almost a thousand years, a locator spells takes him to New Orleans, to a flower shop of all places. He was always a sucker for the language of flowers.
Relationships: Caroline Forbes/Klaus Mikaelson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	le langage des fleurs

**Author's Note:**

> florist caroline is something that i didnt know i needed
> 
> please comment! it encourages me to write more :)

Practically a thousand years in the wind, he finally has the location of his mother’s eldest grimoire. New Orleans, a city he held close to his heart. A flower shop, according to the map on his phone. A flower shop has been hiding the key to his hybrids all along. He had broken his curse, killed the doppelgänger, yet very wolf he has turned has failed. Bleeding from every orifice of their body until they went rabid, and he was forced to rip their hearts from their chest. Now an oracle has given him an extension of the curse his mother placed on him ten centuries ago, reciting a prophecy from the Original witch herself. _The final grimoire, you will see, is standing with the remaining key._ The oracle did not have time to elaborate before he beheaded her. Nothing would stand in his way.

Its late, and Caroline should have closed up shop and went home hours ago. But she had a rush order for a last-minute wedding, and she knows herself well enough to know she would not have gotten a wink of sleep thinking about the receipt waiting on her desk in the morning. Besides, she loved the shop at night. She works best in the quiet, alone with her thoughts and the smell of fresh cut stems lingering in the air.

She had spent most of her childhood in this shop. Passed down through generations, it was her grandmothers before it was hers. Bill Forbes wasn’t really into the flower thing, he preferred to spend his time chasing monsters and vacationing with _Steven_. Caroline had picked petals off daffodils as a child and helped cut orders as a teenager. Her grandmother taught her how to do it all – except for the magic part. Bill Forbes made it very clear that his daughter would not be taught to practice witchcraft. Honestly, Caroline had no desire after learning her family’s history. Her grandmother told her plenty of bedtime stories, but as she got older bedtimes stories turned into recollections of real history. And it was dark.

Apparently, the Forbes witches had a tendency to tap into dark magic and stir up some sticky spells. Grandma Forbes had told her according to stories her mother had passed along, one of their ancestors was friends with the witch that created vampires. The species that her father had devoted his life to exterminating. That ancestor also helped curse one of the first vampires, born a werewolf first and made into something else. Grandma Forbes used to scare her with tales of the lucrative Original, a monster that lurked in the shadows awaiting the day he would break his curse. A creature not afraid of violence and torture. She would be a fool to doubt his existence, but legend goes that no one knows his face, so she has her suspicions.

She is wrapping her last bouquet when the bell on her shop door rings. It is well past closing time and Caroline curses herself for not locking the door. She’s about to shout they are closed when her skin begins to burn, specifically the skin just below her right clavicle. _Vampire._ She pulls the collar of her dress to cover her chest and removes her hair out from the ponytail she was sporting, hoping that will be enough to conceal her skin. She opens a drawer in her desk and digs out the wooden stake her father had given her. Precaution, he had told her.

The burning of her skin intensified when she walked toward the counter. The vampire’s footsteps are heavy and loud before she ever sees him. His fingers are grazing delicately over her stocked collection she displays in the lobby. He moves with swiftness and ease, gently petting the petals of her begonias. He is dressed in dark, muted colors. Wearing a Henley despite the fact that it is the middle of summer, dark wash jeans cuffed at the ankles showing the laces of his boots. Necklaces drape around his neck, Caroline swallows a little harder.

She can practically taste the venom in her tone as she says, “Sorry. We closed three hours ago.” Her words are short and clipped, she is busy, and she really does not want to ruin this dress with vampire blood.

He does not turn around when she speaks, or even acknowledge her presence in the room. Instead, he bends slightly to sniff the carnations. Caroline grips the stake a little tighter behind the counter. She’s about to repeat herself when he turns slowly, revealing his face. She would be lying is she said she was not taken aback by his attractiveness. His hair is a sandy blonde, grown out enough that it is starting to curl. Stubble ghosts his face; he has shaved recently. She can smell his cologne and knows that it isn’t the cheap kind most men buy. His lips are amaryllis red, plump, and inviting. Too bad she knows better.

“I had forgotten how much I admired the company of fresh greenery,” His voice is deeper than she expected, accompanied with a British accent that surprises her. He takes a few menacing steps toward her. “Is that anyway to talk to a customer, sweetheart?”

Caroline lifts her chin when she speaks, same venom and dislike edging in her voice. “Most customers come in during business hours. And I don’t serve vampires.”

He raises an eyebrow, and a grin stretches across his lips in amusement. He takes another step, so he is only a few feet away from her. The stake in her hand suddenly feels heavy. “It is a good thing I am not just any vampire,” His grin expands to show the dimples in his face. “The Original vampire – or, the Original Hybrid, I should say. That splinter in your hand will not work on me, love.”

Stillness shocks her body, and the spot below her collarbone is burning with a fury that she can not explain. Rather than showing her surprise, Caroline places the stake on the counter between them and crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m not afraid of you. What do you want?”

The Hybrid stalks closer, now touching the counter and leaning into her space. “I want to place an order, sweetheart.” Caroline raises a brow and plays along, grabbing her scissors and string from behind the counter. “Did you know flowers have their own language. Personified in the nineteenth century and before that at the courts in Constantinople. Borage, iris…”

Caroline begins gathering the flowers together, carefully trimming them and arranging them. What feels like ages passes between them, but in reality, it must have only been a few seconds. The Hybrid has gone utterly quiet and spares him glance while trimming an iris stem. He is burning holes in her skin with his stare. She’s about the throw her scissors at him and tell him to get lost when she realizes he is staring at her chest, specifically the faint mark that has been burning the entire time. Caroline curses herself for not being more careful, her grandmother had told her to keep the birth mark covered from strangers.

It has faded throughout adulthood, getting fainter and fainter each year she doesn’t practice magic. Eventually it will fade completely like her fathers did. Not every witch in her family has the birth mark, including her grandmother, but it reserved for the witches who are predicted to be the strongest in her bloodline. Part of the reason she has never practiced, fearing the darkness that plagued her ancestors would plague her as well. The birthmark a reminder that she was predisposition for darkness. 

Suddenly, the Hybrid is in front of her, close enough that the heat of his breath is ghosting her skin, adding to the burning sensation that has not dulled even the slightest. She wants to back away from him, but she can’t find her footing. She watches has he slowly brings his hand toward her body, one finger pointed out as he moves her curls away from the mark to get a better look. Honestly, it is barely noticeable. The mark is no bigger than a coin. The actual lines of the birth mark are the same color as her flesh, outlined by a faint olive brown. It is a single linear line that splits off into an arch, combined with two parallel diagonal lines in the middle. She never understood what the symbol stood for, only that Grandma Forbes said it meant she could be very powerful if she ever decided to practice. Bill said it was a reminder of their families tainted history.

Her breath hitches when the Hybrid’s finger presses against the mark, sending electric shocks through her nerves. Awareness tingles in her spine as his eyes meet hers, they are surprisingly readable. He knows something she doesn’t, he knows exactly what the birthmark is and what it means.

“You are a Firbhisigh witch.” She’s confused as he speaks, but he is in deep in thought, his eyes rake over her in curiosity. “I haven’t run across one of you since the early sixteen-hundreds. You lot are a rare breed.”

She doesn’t try to hide her confusion as her brows pinch together, whoever he thinks she is, he has it wrong. Grandma Forbes never mentioned _Firbhisigh_ to her, or the fact that they were scarce. Caroline thought the witch gene ran to everyone in her family. When his eyes return to hers, she speaks slowly. “I have no idea what you are talking about. I don’t practice magic, and I don’t plan on starting anytime soon. So, whatever you think I know or why you walked into my shop – I can’t help you. I won’t.”

He leans away from her and straightens his spine. Fascination gone and replaced with haste. “At first, I was not convinced that this was the right place. But now, I know I am right.” Unexpectedly, he pulls out his wallet and lays a few bills on the counter. Definitely more than what the arrangement is worth, not that she cares to tell him that. “Summer savory and blackthorn.” She curses him for his lavish taste, the arrangement will be decadent, sophisticated – he knew what he was talking about.

She quickly puts the flowers together, eager to get him out of her shop and away from her. She finishes the twine and slides the bundle across the counter, grabbing the bills and folding them into the pocket of her dress.

His hand is on the counter again when he meets her at eye level. “You will help me Caroline, it would be a shame to try my hand on this matter.” A pit forms in the bottom of her stomach, the burn from the mark begins to fade as he turns around and starts to exit the shop.

Before he reaches for the knob on the door he turns slightly, looking over his shoulder. “The flowers are for you, by the way. I hope you understand them.”

With a puff of air, he’s gone. Caroline takes a breath and wipes the sweat from her brow. She is now into something deep, more terrifying than any bedtime story her grandmother told her. He will be back. She should call Bill; he would protect her… or die trying. A part of her wants to pack her bags and get out of town, but she knows she would not get far. Instead, she quickly locks the door and returns to her office to find one of the floral meanings books she knows is in there.

_(A message, blunt and direct, fate, interest.)_

**Author's Note:**

> Mac Firbhisigh is the Gaelic root of Forbes. 
> 
> Iris - a message  
> Borage - bluntess and directness  
> Summer savory - interest  
> Blackthorn - fate


End file.
